In a Darker World
by Muse10
Summary: A series of unconnected, AU stories with dark themes. Warning! If you're looking for happy endings, go elsewhere. Ratings change by story
1. A Grief Unobserved

Disclaimer: Don't own LOTR

This is the first in a collection of mildly AU stories exploring the dark side of the LOTR characters. They are unconnected (unless otherwise stated) to one another or to any of my other LOTR stories. Each story will include a rating (just in case), a summary, and the main characters so you can decide which ones you want to read. Enjoy!

A Grief Unobserved - After Gandalf's death, Frodo discovers just why the woodelves are considered more dangerous than their cousins.

Rating: K+

Characters: Frodo, Legolas

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><p>A Grief Unobserved<p>

Frodo had always wondered about the Fellowship's elf. He could laugh easily, and his songs filled the air with wondrous music. Sam admired him, and Merry and Pippin thought him a joy. But from the beginning Frodo thought there was a strangeness to him, like a cold day in the middle of summer. He saw it most clearly when the elf was fighting. There was a danger to him, and Frodo had a feeling that it was a danger not only applying to the orcs. Legolas killed without mercy, firing arrow after arrow, using his knives when those ran out, and using his hands when the knives were lost. Frodo had once seen him break a goblin's neck as easily as if it had been a stick.

At first he thought it was only the benefit of elven reflexes that gave Legolas such speed with his kills. Yet as he learned to fight himself, he learned there was more to it: Legolas did not hesitate. He simply killed. And yes, it had saved their lives, but did the elf never think of what he was doing, never wonder what consequences were to be had for killing a creature before it had time to defend itself? Maybe it was only the hundreds of years of experience he had, as Merry suggested when Frodo brought up this question one evening while the others were busy and Legolas was hunting. There was always meat to be had when Legolas hunted for them.

It was not until they left Moria that he understood what it really was that made him so uncomfortable, and that the others began to see the elf the way Frodo always had. Frodo's heart clenched and bled, crying for the loss of dear Gandalf. The others, too, were in various states of disbelief and grief. Legolas looked out over the rocky hills, as if he was scouting, but Frodo thought he must have been trying to compose himself. Not that it mattered. Frodo wanted to run, he was barely aware of the others. Aragorn suggested they move on, which Frodo would have thought callous if not for the desperation in his voice and the comforting way he spoke to Sam. Frodo assumed the best of anyone who was good to Sam and his cousins. When he turned back, he saw Legolas pull Merry to his feet gently, but without a single word of kindness. There was no hint of the devestation Frodo felt on the elf's face.

Frodo could have put all this aside as the way Legolas was dealing with his grief. He really could not find room in his heart to care, were he perfectly honest with himself, about anyone but Gandalf at the moment. He was hardly hungry, and so hardly listening over dinner as they tried to decide how best to approach Lothlorien. Legolas insisted they press on, while Aragorn thought it best they stop for the night to allow them time to rest, to grieve. What caught Frodo's attention was the elf's incredulous, unsympathetic question: "Why?"

Frodo started at that. Had Legolas truly asked why they needed to grieve? But perhaps he misunderstood. Aragorn did not seem to mind the question, though he sighed as one who had answered already many times. "Because we need the time to come to terms with his death, to spend an eve at least alone with our thoughts, thinking of Gandalf."

"Gandalf is dead." This was not a question. Legolas might as well have been commenting on the state of the weather.

"Yes," said Aragorn, the overwhelming grief in his voice making Legolas' monotone all the more apparent.

"So there is no need to think about him. We will be safer in Lothlorien, and you can think about him then. The Lady will want to hear of his encounter with the creature," Legolas replied evenly.

"No need to think about him?" Merry called out. Clearly, Frodo was not the only one who was surprised by the turn that the conversation had taken. "But of course there is! Gandalf was our friend, and I would give anything to bring him back to us!"

Legolas shook his head. "Thinking will not accomplish that. Gandalf did what was necessary, and now we must do our part. But, if you truly wish to remain here, I cannot argue it." With a shrug, he moved back over to his pack and started cleaning the gore off of his knives, humming a pleasant, even tune as he did so.

Frodo couldn't help finally voicing his own concerns. "Legolas."

The elf looked up, and Frodo noticed that there was a splash of blood on his cheek. Whether it was from the deer he had skinned for their dinner or something else, the hobbit did not dare to guess. "Yes?"

"I'm sorry."

Legolas raised an eyebrow. "Whatever for?"

"For Gandalf, of course. You knew him longer than the rest of us, surely his death pains you," Frodo prompted.

"Oh." Legolas went back to his knives. "No, it does not pain me, no need for sorrow. I expect we shall all meet a similar fate."

Frodo felt a chill go through him. No one had said as much, though they all knew it was likely to be true. It hurt, though, that the elf who must have loved Gandalf, _must _have felt something for him, seemed indifferent his death, and to the end of the entire Fellowship. "Doesn't it matter to you at all?" he asked quietly.

"No," Legolas answered. He sighted along the blade of his knife, then reached for a whetstone.

"You don't care?" Merry exclaimed. The little hobbit was on his feet, and his voice shook with anger. "How can you just not care, not shed one tear, when you knew him for years?"

"Merry!" Aragorn cried, pulling on the young hobbit's shoulder. "That is quite enough. You are upset, and you are saying things you do not understand."

Legolas himself looked very confused. "Am I meant to do more?"

The hobbits let out anguished cries, and even dark Boromir looked upon the elf as though Legolas were an orc. Gimli growled low in his throat. "Heartless creature! I should have expected it of an elf! I suppose you mean to slaughter us in our sleep?"

Legolas' eyes narrowed. "I swore to protect this Fellowship, and so I shall, to my last breath. So Gandalf is dead; what changes, truly?"

Aragorn kept a hand on Gimli's shoulder to keep him from rising against the elf. The ranger looked desperate to ease the situation. "Tell them of Mirkwood, Legolas, they don't understand!"

Legolas looked around at each face, and it was only when he met Frodo's gaze that he seemed to comprehend why the others might be upset. There was a flicker of memory, of feeling, behind his eyes, perhaps of some bittersweet day of long lost childhood. "In my home we are accustomed to death," he began. "I do not expect to return on any given day; none of us do. So we live for when we are, and we accept when we are not. I have seen many good friends fall, more than you shall ever see, I suspect, even were you to live as long as I."

Again there was that hint of sorrow. Frodo almost reached out to him, for it seemed suddenly that Legolas had simply seen too much in his life and would surely fade from grief if he did think about Gandalf and all the others. Then Legolas' face hardened to a look that frightened Frodo, and instead the hobbit pulled away. The firelight shone on the bloody line across his cheek, and the elf's musical voice sounded harsh. "Grief is foolish. If you waste your time mourning in Mirkwood a spider will eat you even as an orc arrow pierces your heart. So we do not mourn; I do not mourn. Not my friends, not my mother, not my siblings, and certainly not Gandalf, and when I die I shall not expect anyone to be bothered by my passing, save as an inconvenience."

Legolas turned his back on them, and set about sharpening his knives while singing a light song, the same as always. It was only now Frodo realized what the lyrics translated to, and he felt ill to hear it. It was a song of fighting, of dying, a song made to teach soldiers not to care if they sent a hundred brothers to die if it meant saving the rest of their people. He wondered if Legolas even knew how to grieve, or if he had ever in his long life known comfort. He suspected not. Legolas was a soldier, born and raised to fight and die. Frodo shivered, rolled over, and tried to cover his ears. He would rather turn his thoughts to Gandalf then watch those knives dance, listen to the song of pitiless death. Frodo did not want to wonder about the elf anymore.


	2. Feed

Disclaimer: Don't own LOTR.

Thanks for your reviews! Here's the next story. It's something of a dark comedy rather than horror, but I had a lot of fun with it! Enjoy.

Feed – It could not have been easy to keep four hobbits satiated during the journey, but at least the other members of the Fellowship are willing to donate a pint or two every once and a while.

Rating: K+

Characters: Hobbits, Fellowship

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><p>"Merry," Pippin whispered.<p>

"What?"

"I'm hungry."

All but the hobbits shared a look. It seemed these creatures were always hungry. "Can you hold on a bit longer Pippin?" Aragorn called back, attempting to keep the distaste from his voice.

"Actually, I'm hungry too," said Frodo. "Will we be stopping soon?"

Gandalf cast a subtle eye on the ring-bearer. Hobbits. Why did it always have to be hobbits? The lad did look a bit too pale, however, and they needed this one to be kept strong. Even as he wondered to himself why Eru couldn't have created some gentler creature to call hobbit, he looked ahead for a decent position to make camp. The sky was beginning to turn rosy, so it was indeed around time for dinner. "If I recall correctly, we are but an hour's distance from a stream. Let us get within a fair distance of water, and then you may eat. Legolas, perhaps you could scout ahead some and find a rabbit or two for our supper?"

The elf nodded and disappeared into the trees, well aware that the camp needed to be very secure if Gandalf intended to allow the hobbits a full meal. The others continued on at a slower pace, Gandalf and Aragorn quietly discussing who should be on guard in the night. Boromir flinched when Merry tugged on his cloak. "Ah, yes?"

"Will you teach us more swordplay?" he asked, eyes widening in that manner which had so attracted him to the hobbits at first. These creatures were more treacherous than orcs; with orcs there was no question. They would kill you, they expected you to kill them, and each side thought the other hideous. With hobbits, you never could tell.

"I hardly think you need it," he mumbled, but finished with a slight smile. "You pick it up so quickly, I mean." Personally he thought it unwise to train hobbits in any sort of weaponry. They were enough of a danger as it was.

"Oh, but it is such fun! Won't you please spar with us?"

Gandalf coughed ahead of them. "Not tonight, Merry," he called over his shoulder. Boromir swallowed and felt his blood run cold. He was not to be the one on guard, then. He wondered which other member of their Fellowship would share his misfortune, for they always worked in pairs.

"Oh. Some other time, then," Merry declared. Boromir nodded, and the hobbit scampered back to Pippin, who gazed at Boromir with a look that was decidedly not cute. He turned away and could not find the stomach to engage in Gimli's tirade on the finer points of roasting a boar. He felt rather like avoiding food altogether.

Soon enough they could hear the stream Gandalf had spoken of, and once it could be glimpsed through the trees Gandalf declared that the spot would be their camp. The hobbits put down their packs and stretched with relief, while the others took this news with some trepidation. Frodo and Sam set out the bedrolls while Pippin and Merry collected wood. Gandalf dug a pit for the fire, and Aragorn, Gimli, and Boromir set out their own belongings.

All paused at the rustling of branches close by, reaching for their weapons. But it was only Legolas, returning with four fat rabbits in his hand. All of them got jumpy on nights like this, when they were certain to have two of their warriors out of commission. Aragorn took the rabbits from Legolas and gestured in Boromir's direction. "I'll take care of them."

Legolas nodded, his face betraying nothing of what he might think about the situation. The elf put out his sleeping roll next to Boromir's, leaving enough room between them for another body. The hobbits licked their lips and crawled over, dividing themselves between the two.

Gandalf nodded to Gimli, who took up his ax and kept watch on their surroundings. Aragorn bent over the fire and carved up the rabbit meat into a broth; no need to waste energy on chewing. Legolas and Boromir sat on their bedrolls and stripped to the waist. The hobbits nearly salivated once their skin was revealed. Both man and elf bore the deeply bruised remains of puncture marks at their wrists, elbows, and necks.

Boromir looked over at the wizard, who had settled himself close by to keep an eye on the proceedings. With a deep breath, he lay back and made himself as comfortable as he could. Pippin shifted closer to the Gondorian, gently picking up his left wrist and caressing the bruises. Sam glared from over the body of the elf. "Don't you be impolite."

Pippin turned his sweetest face to Boromir. "May we eat now?"

"Yes." Boromir shut his eyes so that he could not see the little face contort as the jaw stretched wide and the sharp incisors dug once more into his flesh, while Merry's lips met with the skin of his inner elbow.

"Go on, Frodo," Legolas said to the hobbit who knelt by his neck. "Other side, Sam, if you wouldn't mind. I need to draw with that arm."

"Beggin' your pardon," said Sam as he moved next to Merry, between the bedrolls, and took up the elf's other wrist. Legolas barely heard, for the ringbearer already had his teeth buried in Legolas' jugular.

The hobbits drank greedily, allowing not a drop of the sweet sustenance to dribble down their chins. It has often and truly been said that hobbits' only real passion is for food; to them feeding was ecstasy. To their hosts it was agony; a bright, burning pain was left at the sight of the wounds, and blood was drawn from them faster than their bodies could supply.

After six minutes, a pale Boromir used his free arm to tap gently on his diners' heads. "I'm finished, little ones." They ignored him, and Boromir began to weakly pull his left arm away. "Stop! I cannot give you more!"

Gandalf gripped the hobbits' ears and pulled at the curly heads, his voice echoing dangerously. "That is enough!"

Merry and Pippin released Boromir, wincing as Gandalf let go of their ears. Frodo lifted his head, staring down at Legolas with bright blue eyes. "Should we finish too, Legolas?"

"Soon, yes. But I can last a little longer," said the elf.

Sam released Legolas' arm. "You have more then, Mister Frodo. I'm full, honest, and you need to keep up your strength."

"Oh, Sam." Frodo smiled, and then went back to his meal. He did not drink much more before he sat up, licked his lips, and joined the other hobbits by their packs, where they were happily settling down with full bellies and savoring the last drops that had gotten on their fingers.

Gandalf gently helped to tie a tourniquet around the bleeding arms, and held a cloth tight against Legolas' neck. Aragorn brought over their soup and water, helping first Boromir, than Legolas, to eat. Feedings left all of them weak, and barely able to lift whichever limb they had offered. Once Boromir had settled into sleep and Legolas' blank eyes assured Aragorn that he walked the elvenpaths, the man drew thick blankets over them. The hobbits, their eyes bright and their energy high, instinctually let their gazes wander to their sleeping companions. Even though they were full the temptation to drain the injured was strong. Hobbits were not hunters, after all, but scavengers.

Aragorn cleared his throat. "Come here now, and I'll tell you more about my first journey into the wild as a ranger."

"Oh yes!" declared Sam. "You were just telling us how you met the wandering elves. I remember them; they were good folk."

"Good folk indeed," Merry agreed. "Very sweet. You really must taste it sometime Aragorn; you've a similar flavor."

Gimli coughed, and Aragorn tried very hard to keep his face neutral. Gandalf shook his head. Hobbits. Why was it always hobbits?


	3. The King's Son

Disclaimer: Don't own LOTR

Thank you so much for your reviews! I appreciate all comments, though I admit that I'm surprised by the strong reactions garnered by "Feed." I guess everyone has their own taste (heh, sorry, terrible pun). This next one is very serious, so please heed the warning below. It is (unfortunately) not as strange/fantastic as the last one, however, so those who are fond of more realistic fics might like it better.

The King's Son – Men can be wicked, no matter how noble their blood or how fine their deeds. Eowyn knows this all too well.

Rating: T,** Warning**: This story deals with rape, and it might be **triggering** for some readers. It is unfortunate that the issues explored here are all too real, and I think it's important for people to be aware of them so that they can change.

Characters: Eowyn

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><p>Theodred is dead, and I am glad of it. Think what you will of me for such treason against the king's son, but there it is. How I hate him still, even knowing that he lies cold after days of agony while I live with only the pain that is in my heart. Oh, yes, I know how he suffered. I watched him, and I waited, and I did nothing to ease him. You will judge me for denying a soldier his final comfort, but I tell you he has already taken all the comfort I had to give.<p>

The king's son can do no wrong. You are not supposed to deny him anything. So when he touched me, when he put herbs in my drink that left me witless, when he forced himself on me, he did no wrong. I did not say no, and it was not only his poison that kept me from speaking. I can barely recall those first nights, barely be sure that they are more than a dream. But I know what he did to me, and I do not need the memory of later days when he did not bother to drug me, when he simply took what he wanted, to know it. Even though he was my cousin, even though he hurt me, I could not say no. My brother's fate was in his hands, _my _fate. The things he whispered into my ears still make me feel sick.

Do not ask me why I did not tell my king or my brother. Who do you think they would believe? Eowyn, who was so well known for speaking out of turn, or Theodred, the people's hero? I have seen girls bring such accusations against lesser men, and still they are the ones who are subjected to shame, to guilt, even thrown in prison. They will cut off the hands of a horse thief, never once asking if perhaps the owner invited a crime by keeping his gate unlocked or inspecting every inch of the horse to make sure it was indeed stolen. But should a woman of the Mark cry rape? They will ask her what she wore, the time she went out, if she perhaps had more ale than was good for a proper lady, or simply regretted a reckless night. They will subject her to thorough examination, and even when there is evidence of force and injury, even when there are witnesses, even when a trial ends and the man is imprisoned for his crime, she walks away in shame! She cannot marry, her father (for he is the head of house, and never the mother) may beat her for being a burden, and she is oft driven away. Nay, I have never told a soul how I suffered at the hands of their beloved Theodred. Even had I undeniable proof, I would likely find myself in a lower position than he.

There is one who discovered my secret, other than the handmaidens who suffer their own burdens and would not dare to intrude on mine. Grima Wormtongue, my uncle's cruel, sniveling, snake of an advisor. He has haunted me since his arrival at Edoras, but he has never raised a finger against me. My brother notices – oh, yes, he notices when Grima looks upon me with an unseemly lust. Grima is ugly, disliked, and he is no king's son. He is exactly the type of creature the men imagine will prey upon their wives, sisters, and daughters, while it is the handsome noblemen who do us real harm. They could never imagine their warriors, so _chivalrous, _so _good_, shoving, biting, pinching, bleeding their women. They would protect us from strange men, like Grima, or foreign ones, but my dear brothers of the Mark, I wish only that you would protect us from yourselves!

Grima is a better man than Theodred, but only just. He followed me, and he watched – he watched! – when my noble cousin forced me against the wall of an empty stall in the stables, pushed up my dress, and forced himself into my unwilling body. I saw him through an open space between the wood paneling, and it was only when he knew I'd recognized him that he ran away. The next day the witless king signed an order for his son to lead a garrison of men to fight the orcs encroaching on our borders. I know Grima was the one who orchestrated it; he has been behind everything the king does in these dark days. Oh, it was not out of kindness, it was not to protect me; he was jealous, and wanted me for himself. But he had not the power to act on his whims. At least he had the decency to try and bend my will to his, and did not simply take, if decency it can be called.

Grima is not as clever as he thinks. When the Wormtongue found me crying over the corpse of that hated cousin, it was not out of grief. Not for Theodred. Grima's words did not sting as he supposed they would, for I know well the treachery of men. I will not be drawn into his lies. Nay, I shall bide my time and then I will go to war. I will fight to regain my honor, and no man, no king's son, will ever hurt me again. I will kill beasts because I cannot kill my countrymen. I would destroy the very essence of man's corruption if I could, but I will settle for any creature who seeks to defile me.

The king's son is dead, and I am glad. I will smile again.


	4. Another Father's Son

Disclaimer: Don't own LOTR

Thanks so much for your reviews! I love reading them. Despite the similar titles, this story has a very different theme from the last one. It looks at the possiblity of less noble intentions in an elf who is often depicted as nearly flawless. Still in character, just...troubled. Enjoy!

Another Father's Son – Elrond will protect his family at any cost.

Rating: K+

Characters: Elrond, Gandalf, Legolas (minor)

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><p>"And what of the elves? Whom shall you send to represent your own people?" asked Gandalf. He sat in front of a desk covered in books and parchment, while Elrond stared out past his balcony, not really seeing anything. More than anything in the world the elf lord dreaded this. It had been simple enough to think about the men and dwarves, to send those he barely knew on what was likely their last mission, but this…he had tried to answer this question from the very moment he had decided that the ring needed to be destroyed.<p>

He did not answer Gandalf, but desperately searched one last time for a different answer. He was acquainted with many great elves; sindar, noldor, and silvan. Any number of them would do for this task. Surely someone powerful, like Lord Glorfindel, should go.

Gandalf spoke as though he had read Elrond's mind, although there was too much respect between the pair of them for him to do so out of turn. "It can't be Glorfindel, or anyone like him. He is too recognizable, and Aragorn has too much respect for him. You know Aragorn must lead the party, and it will ruin him if he has anyone along to whom he can defer judgment – at least, besides myself."

Someone wise, then, like Erestor.

"They should have a stout heart, though, and perhaps not so much knowledge," continued Gandalf. "A warrior, not a scholar. A scholar would be wise enough to run. Of course we do not want a fool, either."

Lanthiron? He was an ancient sindar, one of Thranduil's folk who had served with Oropher. He had seen many, many things in his long life that might aid the ringbearer.

"No one too old; it might intimidate Aragorn, as I suggested before. More importantly, they have seen too much. They could very well drag down the company, set as they are in their ways. Many do not like dwarves or men, and I do not think they will give any new thought to their being companions."

Losgon, a silvan of Lothlorien. Quick, young, brave…

"Someone who speaks the common tongue very well. I do not want any breakdowns because of miscommunication."

Haldir. Young, brave, fluent in Westron, neither fool nor scholar, no one of terrible power or real note…

Gandalf drew thoughtfully on his pipe. "You know, despite what I said about renowned warriors, I believe it might be best if they were from a noble house. Most of the other members are, and it would help to solidify relations between the different races if they were on equal footing. No one particularly great, of course, but perhaps someone's child."

Elrond closed his eyes and squeezed the railing until his knuckles were white. Yes, he had already had this conversation with himself many times. Every name that came to his head, ruled out for one reason or another. The truth was it could not be just anyone on the quest. Of all his many acquaintances, there were few who truly possessed all of these qualities in great amounts. Oh, he knew who did. In fact, they had been his first thoughts of who to send. Who better, after all, than one of his own sons?

Elladan or Elrohir. Powerful, but not enough to draw attention. Wise, but foolish enough to face battle without fear. Young; oh so very, very young. Had he not held them in his arms but yesterday? Had they not just learned their first words? No, they knew them all, and in many languages. They were not just the sons of a lord, but Aragorn's brothers, as well. Either one would support him without overshadowing his leadership, either one would walk to the very fires of Mt. Doom and throw themselves at Sauron's armies for the sake of the quest, taking hundreds of orcs out with them. Neither one would ever return, and he knew very well if he lost one he would lose the other.

Elrond held onto the railing as if he was about to fall. He opened his eyes and drew in a breath, preparing to send his sons to their deaths. A gasp of air left his mouth, but no words followed.

He couldn't do it. He could not. Elrond shut his eyes again to let a few frustrated tears fall. He had not cried since his wife died. His wife – what would he say to Celebrían? Even in Valinor, for him come to missing either sons or daughter would surely break her heart beyond repair. If Aragorn survived, Arwen was already lost, and he could not imagine losing all of his children. No. His family had suffered enough. There had to be a reason, had to be another way.

He looked up to the heavens, all too aware of Gandalf's patient stare. Above Earendil shone bright as ever, and Elrond prayed. _Please. I have never asked for much, I have done everything you asked, handled every single blow that the Valar have sent. This once, spare my sons! _The star twinkled, and with a sigh Elrond looked back at the ground.

He blinked. There was someone in the gardens below, dancing, but he could not tell who because their immortal light burned so brightly. Elrond nearly choked on his breath in elation. For just a moment, an incalculable relief flowed through him. Here was his answer, a reason his sons could not be part of the Fellowship! That immortal light attracted enemies, and while it could certainly be dampened for the sake of secrecy it could also be amplified, perhaps if one wished to provide a little hope to companions, or a more tangible hope in the form of a diversion. Any elf on the Fellowship should be willing to make that sacrifice, to amplify their light so as to give the others more time.

It would not, could not be his sons, then. His sons were part human, after all, so they did not glow the way this dancer did, or any other full blooded elf. Oh, his beloved sons; Arwen was already lost, perhaps, but now he could keep his sons. Neither would meet their fate in that kingdom of ash, miles away from their beautiful valley.

At last he could speak. "We need someone who has a strong light, someone who might distract enemies."

Behind him, Gandalf nodded. "Yes." He gave no indication as to whether or not he knew this was Elrond's last gambit, and if he did the wizard would keep his peace.

Elrond had to turn away from the garden for a moment, because the light had caught on something and sent it into his eyes. He squinted, surprised that a dancer would wear anything large enough to have such a strong reflection.

The air went out of him again, and another cold wave of despair quenched his elation. There in the garden below was not a carefree dancer, but Mirkwood's warrior prince, practicing with his knives. Like Glorfindel, like Erestor, like Lanthiron, Losgon, Haldir, Elladan, Elrohir, and so many others, Legolas was one who had volunteered for the Fellowship. Legolas, who had traveled as an emissary to Imladris so many times, and was such a good friend to the twins and Aragorn. Legolas, who yearned only to bring peace to his beloved woods and to be a good son to Thranduil.

Elrond had forgotten, in all his fear for his own children, that if they were not chosen he would have to send another father's son. How could he be so selfish, as to tear away another elf's child? He knew perfectly well that they would not be coming back. He had panicked himself so that he already felt the loss of his children; how could he condemn another father to something so…

"I think we should send Legolas." The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. Despite all his good intentions, his mind was screaming: _yes, take Legolas, take Legolas! Take Thranduil's son, and leave mine alone!_

But how could he not send this child? Legolas. Power in bow and song and tree, but not well known beyond his home. Wise in the ways of the wood, but certainly no scholar. Young, younger than any of his own children. Fair-spoken, in Westron, Sindarin, and Silvan. The last born son of Mirkwood's elvenking, a prince who rarely acknowledged his own status.

Legolas parried and spun on an invisible enemy, his body sending off a light that would call enemies a thousand miles away even though it brought fresh hope and joy into the hearts of those who looked upon him. He burned, this king's son, he burned with a light that was stronger than many other elves.

And this would save his sons. For if Legolas did not go, who else was there?

Elrond turned slowly back to Gandalf. He could not look at the prince while he pronounced this latest verdict. "Yes. Legolas will represent the elves."

The wizard mulled this over for a moment, and then agreed.

Selfish it might have been, but in the end Elrond could not find it in his heart to regret. Of course his sons could have gone, and done well, but he wanted them to be safe. Legolas had a place in his heart, but he was not Elrond's son. For once, this doom would not fall upon the house of Elrond. It would fall upon Thranduil's.


	5. The Body and the Grave

Disclaimer: Don't own LOTR.

Thanks for your reviews! They are much appreciated.

The Body and the Grave – Gilraen dies, leaving Aragorn to reconsider his ideas about life, death, and fate.

Rating: K+

Chracters: Aragorn, Gilraen, Elrond (minor)

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><p>Aragorn had left home in order to avoid his fate, but somehow he was always drawn inexplicably toward it. If he wished to be with Arwen, than he would have to face his heritage eventually. Still he roamed, unable and unsure of what path to take. He turned his restless energy and confusion to adventure for the righteous, ridding Middle Earth of those things which fouled her.<p>

He had faced many dangers in his short life, and expected to lose his friends to enemies at every turn. He and his foster brothers had been up to their elbows in blood consoling lost soldiers, and more often than he would have liked they were also consoling and healing one another. He had seen elves drained of blood in spider nests. He had seen war-brothers impaled on spears and hanging from trees. He had seen men of Gondor throw their lives away under his leadership, and men of Rohan trampled beneath friendly charges when they fell from their mounts. He knew death well: an enemy, a river of blood and bone to be vanquished.

So when his mother died, it should not have been so shocking. Gilraen herself had foretold of it, after all: "This is our last parting, Estel, my son. I am aged by care, even as one of lesser Men; and now that it draws near I cannot face the darkness of our time that gathers upon Middle-earth. I shall leave soon."*

Yet somehow, he had not believed she would be truly parted from him. He made sure that her home was well-protected. He cleared out every single goblin den within a hundred miles, had called in favors so that she would be guarded from danger. How could he have known it came from within her?

He could clearly remember the first death he had truly witnessed. He and a ranger called Tarcil had been friends for many years; Aragorn had never been closer to anyone, save his brothers. Tarcil was cleaved through the back of his head, right in front of Aragorn. He died with a look of surprise on his face, staring at Aragorn still when his brain was exposed. The orc who killed him did not live much longer. Aragorn had gone into a rage; the battle was won by his hand, and Tarcil avenged properly. He could lay the man's sword over his chest, could close those staring eyes and send him off with real honor.

But when his mother died, there was no enemy to blame, no orc to cut down, no sword to lie out. There was just a body. No, he could not even say that; all he had was a grave. Aragorn had been away that winter, fighting and following his path of destiny. When he returned in the spring, his mother was gone.

"_Who…how?" Aragorn slammed his fist into a wall. "I swear I shall avenge her! I will not rest until-"_

"_There is nothing to avenge," replied his cousin gently._

_Aragorn stared at her. "What?"_

_His aunt narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips. "She was ill, child, and had been for some time. Didn't you know?"_

"_No…but she…she didn't tell me…"_

"_It was clear enough, even in the summer when you were here. She was gaunt, she was cold, she could not eat, she got headaches – her body shut down. We certainly noticed; we were the ones who cared for her while you were gone!"_

"_Mother, please. It's alright, cousin, you were away because you had to be."_

"_No," Aragorn whispered. "I wasn't."_

Gilraen never had told Aragorn she was sick. He guessed that she had not wished for him to know; she wanted him to go out, to become the 'hope' of men, to fulfill all of the dreams she would never see. But he should have known; he was a healer, and she was his mother!

Aragorn remained for a while in the Dúnedain town with his mother's family. His cousin offered him some solace, telling him of the times Gilraen had smiled while he was away. Even these he had missed, along with the long, dark nights his aunt alluded to. He should have been the one to make her smile and to hold her hand, to bathe her when she was too weak. He should have been the one to fight for her, he should have been the one to lay her in the ground when at last the body was all he had to honor. He had done nothing for her, he could do nothing for her. She was the most important person in his life, and he had failed her.

All around him in that village were the ghosts of a people once proud and strong. Men and women and children – yes, children! – died every week. They were always sick, and there was nothing Aragorn could do. They were a people without hope, it seemed, and there was no way to give them any. These folks were not interested in fighting anymore. They were mere bodies. Just like his mother.

He returned instead to Imladris for the comfort of his foster family, for within the walls of the Last Homely House there was no death. At least, there was no death that was not fought hard against, and no death without an enemy to blame. There was always a lingering _presence_ left behind; even that of Celebrían, the wife of Elrond who sailed away many years before Aragorn's birth, could be felt in the inner gardens. His mother had left nothing.

Aragorn was brooding by a spot in one of the private gardens that Gilraen had been particularly fond of when Elrond's voice came floating over him. "Onen i-Estel Edain, ú-chebin estel anim."*

Aragorn looked up. "How long have you been there?"

"I did not have to be here long to see your thoughts."

Aragorn turned back to his hands. "They do not waver much these days, I suppose."

Elrond sat next to him on the bench. "It takes time for hearts to heal."

"If they heal at all," Aragorn muttered.

"You are angry with her," said Elrond. He did not seem surprised by this.

"No…and yes. It is only…" Aragorn stopped. He could not quite collect his thoughts. Elrond was patient, though, and said nothing until Aragorn began again. "I know it is not her fault that she left me, but the things she said to me…it made me feel like she wanted to die. She must have _known _she was dying, I believe she even told me so, and yet she still pushed me away. She did not want me with her! She did not ever want to see me again, she could not even hold on until the spring! She…she never even wrote to me. She left nothing behind at all."

"Except for you."

"That's the whole trouble!" Aragorn found himself shouting. "She left me here with nothing, and she expects me to go on and be some great man. I haven't got anything to fight for anymore!"

"What of Arwen?"

"Well…yes, of course Arwen."

"And men?"

Aragorn scoffed. "Who cares about men?"

"Your mother did. Your mother cared about the fate of humanity so much that she put everything she had into one source; every ounce of her love, and her energy, and her courage. She left everything she had behind when she died."

"I just said that she left nothing!"

"Except for…"

Aragorn started. "Me." So there it was. The answer to his anger, his enemy, the thing that had stolen her from the world: Aragorn himself. He lowered his head in shame.

Elrond grew stern. "I do not stand for self-pity, Aragorn. That is not what I meant to lead you to. Do you think she meant nothing by her words? 'I gave Hope to the Dúnedain, I have kept no hope for myself.' You need only look at your reflection to find her. She left her essence behind in you, to bring together the strength of all of your ancestors and lead you to become the greatest man of our times. For the time of men is coming, and I would have a child of Gilraen bring it. You are the hope of men, Aragorn, and your mother's hope goes with you."

"Aye, the hope of men and the doom of elves."

For this Elrond had no reply. They sat together in silence for a while. At last Elrond stood up and took stock of the garden. "This would be a wonderful spot for a memorial, don't you think?"

Aragorn found himself smiling. "Yes; and she was so beautiful. Do you think we could commission it?"

"It will be done by the finest sculptors I know. There are dwarves over in the Lonely Mountain who owe me a favor." Elrond turned to leave.

"Lord Elrond?"

The elf paused. "Yes?"

"Why didn't you or Master Erestor ever teach me about death? I am mortal; you must have known I would encounter it sooner rather than later, especially when I went off with the rangers. But when Tarcil died, I did not know how to react except to fight. Now I think that was not the right way to go about it."

Elrond took his time to think over the question. When he did speak, Aragorn expected an answer about the immortality of elves. Instead Elrond said this: "Death teaches itself. It is the harshest master in the world." Then he left Aragorn alone in the garden.

In the years that followed Aragorn came to think of his mother's death as something of a mystical event. He could not explain how she died to anyone, only that she did one winter while he was gone. He returned seldom to the Dúnedain village, for he could not look at her grave and know that her body was rotting away beneath his feet. But every time he was in Imladris he stopped by the statue Elrond had placed in the back garden, and stared once more into her face. It was not quite right, but it was as close as stone would allow. He felt her presence then, stirring within himself – the body, the conductor, the hope of men.

* * *

><p>*ROTK Appendix A: "The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen"<p> 


	6. The Wish

Disclaimer: Don't own LOTR.

Thanks so much for your reviews! It's good to know when things are working :). This story is a little different, because it is (gasp) somewhat happy. Why? Because October is my birthday! The ages included here are from my own imagination, however I did some calculations to determine that they are feasible. The rest is canon. Enjoy!

The Wish – Legolas and Gimli prepare for the Pelannor Fields, and Legolas believes he may have found a way to protect his friends.

Rating: K+

Characters: Legolas, Gimli, Aragorn

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><p>Legolas leaned against the prow of the ship, gazing ahead to the edge of the Pelannor Fields. It was still too far for any of the men to make out, but he could see it, and he was sure they could sense it. A heavy darkness hung over the area. It was midmorning, but the only sunlight came from behind them. It upset his fellow soldiers; the men were cold, frightened, and silent. It upset him, too. He was…not quite afraid, for he had learned long ago how to quell that cold dread creeping up his spine before it reached his head.<p>

No, not afraid, but aware. Aware that this day would hold heavy casualties, aware that he could be one of them, aware that they could fail. Oh, certainly the wind had whispered to him of a change that would speed them to the rescue of Minas Tirith. He was certain that they could make it before the city was overrun, but what then? So many of them were only speeding towards death. If Aragorn was among them, than everything they had done would have been for naught. And if Gimli died, Legolas was not sure what he would do.

The self-same dwarf appeared by his side with a clunking of heavy shoes on the wooden deck. "What are you brooding about, elf?"

Legolas almost smiled. "I am preparing for the battle ahead, dwarf. I should think you would want to do the same. I would hate to see you cut down; it is difficult to imagine you shorter than you already are."

Gimli snorted. "We dwarves are born ready for battle! I will have you know, it is often on account of our perfect size that enemies misjudge their blows, and instead find a dwarven ax embedded in their delicates. I certainly hope I do not mistake you for an orc today. 'Twould be the loss of every elven maid between here and Rivendell."

This time Legolas did smile. "As well as the gentlemen. A tragedy indeed, so I beg you not to make such an error. In turn I shall be sure not to mistake you for a warg and lodge an arrow somewhere equally unfortunate."

Gimli laughed. "Then let us both have a care not to aim at Aragorn. No doubt he'll look as dirty as a goblin within the first minutes of the battle, and should we slip in his direction Gondor will have a king with no heirs."

"Let us hope they have a king at all," said Legolas. The field was closer now, and he thought he could make out the hordes upon it. A bitter battle was ahead of them, and few of them were sure to see the end fully intact.

They were quiet for a while. Both had done all they could to prepare themselves earlier in the journey, so now they needed to suffer the wait without distraction. Gimli shifted uncomfortably and coughed. "Well lad," he said, "this will be a day to remember. The fifteenth of March will live on in the histories of this age, and let us hope we are there to mark it with a celebration!"

Legolas froze. "What day did you say it was?"

Gimli frowned. "March fifteenth. It is hard to keep up with the dates, but I spoke with one of the freed slaves who was keeping records most accurately. Seemed to help him stay sane, the poor fellow."

Legolas tuned out much of the later part of Gimli's statement. _March fifteenth. _ How could he have forgotten? In the grander scheme of things it was not so important, but that he had not thought of it at all showed just how much he was distracted, and just how far he was from home.

"What is that look for, lad?" asked Gimli, leaning against the side of the ship. "What is it about today?"

Legolas let a small smile tug at the corner of his mouth. "It is my begetting day."

"Well!" Gimli exclaimed, searching for something more to say. "What are you, then? One thousand odd years?"

Legolas laughed. "I am not _that _young, my friend."

Gimli blinked. "Young was not exactly what I…oh, never mind. How old are you?"

"2,766."

There was a brief silence. "Happy begetting day."

Legolas smiled in full. "Thank you." Legolas turned his thoughts homeward. He wondered if his family had remembered, or if they, too, were distracted by the war on their own front. A single year meant so little to an elf, but his father had not missed a single one, not for Legolas or any of his siblings. Even when he was away a hawk would find him, or he would return to find some little gift waiting. And cake; there was always cake, and one wish that Thranduil swore would come true – within reason. He started at the thought. Perhaps they had more luck than he believed.

A heavy hand clapped him on the back, strong enough to knock a weaker man over the edge of the ship. "I wish I had something to offer you by way of celebration! Alas, we've only warm ale and some hard cakes. Contrary to popular belief, even we dwarves do not eat stone."

Legolas thought a moment. The logical part of his mind could not believe he was even considering the idea. This was no time to let himself be swayed by children's stories and fantasies. Still, there was enough time, and how could he not try? "Gimli, do you think we could find one of those cakes, and perhaps a candle? There is a begetting day tradition we honor in my homeland, and it would give me some comfort to repeat it now."

Gimli raised an eyebrow. "What, burning food?" Still, he turned to the nearest unoccupied man and called out. "Hey now lad! It is Lord Legolas' begetting day, and I mean to give him a celebration before battle! Would you bring us a cake and some ale?"

The man – more of a boy, really – immediately hopped up, the sword in his lap clattering to the ground. "Aye sirs, 'twould be me honor! And, uh, happy birthday my lord!"

"_Begetting_ day!" Gimli called after him.

"They are one in the same, just a year apart," said Legolas.

"Eh? You were a year long in your mother's womb?"

"As all elves are."

Gimli blinked, shook his head and muttered something. Louder he said, "Anyway, for a candle there is a lantern just behind you, though you shall have to reach it."

Legolas turned. There were, in fact, lanterns hanging all over the ship, and it was no great effort to reach up and remove one of them from its post. He did so carefully. They had been lit to stave off the approaching cloud of darkness, and he did not want the candle to go out too soon. "This will do nicely, if I can get it out."

Gimli shook his head. "Elves. Now what is this tradition of candles and cakes?"

"When I am home, my father always has the kitchen bake a sweet cake for my begetting day, or any of my siblings, if it happens to be theirs. It is a common practice in most families of the wood, and the real milestones are celebrated by everyone – centuries and millennia and such, of course."

"Oh, of course," Gimli snorted. "No importance in a decade."

Legolas continued, "They decorate the cake with candles, and the family sings. If it is your begetting day, you get to blow out the candles when the song is done. They say that if you make a wish as you blow than it will come true."

Gimli stared at him incredulously. It was clear that the dwarf thought this to be the most ridiculous idea he had heard in a long while. Whether to honor Legolas' begetting day or in acknowledgement of what could be their last conversation, he did not say as much. Instead Gimli nodded. "If it makes you feel better, lad. Though I'll not be singing to ye."

Legolas grinned. "That is alright, Gimli. I do not know if the singing is required."

The boy returned with a tray bearing one small gray biscuit and two mugs of ale. Legolas thanked him, then reached into the lantern and wiggled the candle until it came free of its melted base. He had to shove hard in order to get the candle in the cake, but eventually it stuck in the crust. With a wry smile Gimli held the cake out for him. "You'd best sing for yourself, just in case. Song always seems to be part of elf magic."

So Legolas did. He was not usually embarrassed to raise his voice whenever and wherever the mood took him, but there was something strange about singing his own begetting tune and he kept his voice quiet. It wasn't as though anyone else would have known the words; it was in Sindarin.

When he reached the end of the simple little tune, he stared hard into the candle's flame. Then he wished as he had never wished for anything in his life, with all of his will, all of his heart, and all of his soul. _"Please,"_ he thought, _"please. If the Valar must never listen to my prayers again, let them listen to this one. Keep Aragorn safe. Let him see the end of this battle without injury, let him come into the city and be crowned the rightful king. And let Gimli be there to see it. Please. I wish for Aragorn to take no injury today. I wish for him and Gimli to live through this battle."_

Legolas blew out the candle, and he thought he felt a chill run through his body. He looked down at the ugly, stale little cake, and decided he had better eat some of it, just in case that was part of the magic, too. He broke off a morsel and put it into his mouth; it was almost impossible to chew, and harder to swallow.

"Well?" asked Gimli as Legolas reached for the ale to wash it down. "What did you wish for?"

The ale didn't help much, but Legolas smiled. "If I tell you, it won't come true."

"Fair enough." Gimli picked up his own mug and held it aloft. "A toast, then, to you and your health. Happy begetting day, Legolas. May you have many, many, many more than we mortals can imagine."

Their mugs clunked together, and both drained them. "Thank you, my friend."

**XXX**

At the end of the battle, about 14,000 of their allies were dead. Theoden was crushed beneath his horse. Eowyn and Merry were under the dark spell of the Witch-king. Denethor burned. Faramir lay fevered. Halbarad was slain. Legolas himself had three broken ribs, and more bruises than he cared to count.

But Aragorn was one of three men left unscathed by the battle, and when Legolas reached the gates of the city the dwarf was still at his side. Gimli had a nasty cut where his armor separated from his right shoulder and plenty of minor hurts, but he lived and breathed and moved about of his own violation with more grace than the elf. Legolas never did tell Gimli what his wish had been, although when Aragorn swore he had nary a scratch the dwarf gave Legolas an odd look.

"Did you know that it was Legolas' 2,766 begettingday? Or yesterday, I suppose," Gimli said casually. They were in the little tent Gimli and Legolas were sharing for the night. It was very late, and it was the first opportunity either of them had to really speak with Aragorn.

Aragorn looked up from wrapping Legolas' ribs. He looked exhausted, and Legolas wished the man had taken the opportunity to rest instead of insisting that he double-check his friends' injuries. "Is it? Oh mellon-nín, I am sorry for forgetting."

Legolas smiled. "No matter; I had forgotten myself. After 2,000 years it only gets repetitive. Now 28, that will be something to celebrate."

"28?" Gimli sputtered. "Now Legolas, you are always telling me about the great wisdom of the elves, but it appears you cannot do simple mathematics."

Aragorn smiled. "He means 28 centuries – _2,800_ years. But if that is your feeling, Legolas, I promise we will host a grand feast for you in…what, 34 years, is it?"

"Clearly drinking to your health does nothing to dissuade you from foolish stunts like taking down a charging oliphant," said Gimli, eyeing the angry rainbow of colors that marked Legolas' skin. "Though it appears your luck has rubbed off elsewhere."

"Do refrain from riding off on any more wild creatures, Legolas. I do not think your father will approve if you try to bring anything more than a horse home."

Legolas grinned. "It is my begetting day. Since Gimli has kindly spared my delicates, as he would say, I shall _ride_ whatever wild and willing creature I like."

Aragorn groaned, and Gimli laughed so hard he nearly ripped the stitches out of his shoulder. Legolas decided it was well worth every broken bone and every wish he made to hear.


	7. Sugarcoat

Disclaimer: Don't own LOTR

Yay reviews! Thank you all! We're back to the darker themes in this one, though it may not seem like it at first. It's a hobbit story, so it had to be just a little bit cute. There are a lot of minor references to the book in this one, but I hope they won't confuse anyone. Enjoy!

Sugarcoat – Pippin comes to term with the fact that happy endings aren't guaranteed.

Rating: K+

Characters: Pippin, Boromir

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><p>Pippin had always been the youngest member of their little band – he, Merry, Frodo, Fatty, and Sam. As much as he complained about it, he secretly enjoyed the way the others doted on him. Sure, they got him into a great deal of trouble, but they always made sure he came off with the lightest sentence from their elders. Pippin, after all, was adorable. <em>Everyone <em>loved him, and all he had to do was smile. His aunts were always slipping him an extra sweet, his uncles offering their spare change; even the most curmudgeonly elder would soften in his presence. Pippin's cousins might have hated him for this, but he made sure to use his charms to their benefit, as well, so they ended up indulging him as much as everyone else.

Perhaps Pippin was spoiled, but he was never rotten. His mother taught him to be grateful, and so he was. He apologized for every mischief, thanked every gift-giver, and slept soundly at night with dreams that were as beautiful as his reality. His childhood was a golden one.

Even when bad things happened, they were never quite so bad for Pippin. When he broke his arm climbing a tree, the splint came with his first taste of brandy and so many well-wishers that they couldn't all fit in the living room. When Frodo's parents died, he was told they had gone on an extended visit to see their ancestors, and that Frodo would be quite well living with his rich – if a little eccentric – uncle in Hobbiton. Frodo was smiling the next time Pippin saw him, so that was that. When Merry disappeared while they were playing in the river, Pippin ran for help. Everyone told Pippin that it would be okay, although they would not let him watch the rescuers pull Merry from the river, blue and cold. Pippin never was told how near a thing it had been. Merry was alright, and Pippin grew up believing that there was nothing in the world that could really hurt him.

Then Frodo began acting strange, and Pippin found out about his cousin's little secret. Despite Frodo's obvious fear of whatever was after his uncle's ring (and really, what a silly thing it was to get so upset over), the thought of going on a quest for the wizard Gandalf excited him. It was an adventure, a real one, and Pippin was determined to be a part of it.

Things really started to go wrong, he supposed, when he was swallowed by a tree. Of course Tom Bombadil came along soon enough to save them, so that was alright. It was just more mischief, as easily righted as it was committed. They were always rescued, and Pippin was never hurting for very long. The Barrow-wights, the trouble in Bree, even on Weathertop when he was so afraid that his blood was freezing inside him and poor Frodo was stabbed, even then the fear was tempered when Glorfindel appeared on his magnificent horse and performed the elf-magic that sent the Black Riders away.

And wasn't Rivendell wonderful? Pippin became the darling of the elves there. They would laugh at all his jokes, listen to every story, answer every question. They even asked him to sing with them. As for Frodo…Frodo was alright. Master Elrond fixed him, and Strider promised that Frodo would live and all would be well. Right?

Except Frodo was not alright, and deep down Pippin knew it. That's why he had to go with his cousins again when the council decided to destroy the ring. That, and to see the end of their marvelous adventure. He wasn't going to be left behind simply because he was the youngest! It took all of his charms, but things worked out. Pippin was allowed to remain with his friends and their new companions: the dwarf, such a strong and wonderfully humorous fellow, the elf, strange and beautiful and powerful all at once, and the Gondorian man.

Pippin did not like Boromir at first. He was shadowed and bent under a weight that Pippin had seen in Strider, however Boromir bore it with a kind of pride. He seemed cruel, because he enjoyed war as much as the hobbits enjoyed smoking. He never swore that their quest would succeed. He never told Pippin to imagine he was in a soft feather bed when they were lying on rocks, or to think of fresh bread when all they had was stale. On the other hand, he did not talk down to Pippin, either. He spoke to the youngest hobbit the same way he spoke to Merry or Gimli, though perhaps not quite the same way he spoke to Strider.

The Fellowship trudged on, and most of the time it was not nearly so exciting as Pippin had hoped. When it was exciting…well, Pippin was learning to be truly afraid. Sparring with Merry was just a game, until they were attacked and he actually had to use the sword. Racing Gimli (who always lost) was fun, too, until they were running for their lives.

Caradhras was cold and unforgiving. Pippin felt sick most of the time, and when he wasn't in pain he wasn't feeling anything. Miserably he asked if they were going to have to cut off his foot, as he had heard sometimes happened to hobbits in the very worst Shire winters. Gimli laughed: "Of course not!" Strider and Legolas smiled benignly, as though Pippin had _meant_ to be amusing. Gandalf rolled his eyes: "Of all the ridiculous things to say!" Boromir alone took a serious look at Pippin's ailing toes. "Not yet," he said quietly. Then he forced each hobbit to borrow a pair or two of socks, offering his own to Pippin.

Pippin had hoped his time on top of the mountain was the most miserable he would ever feel in his life. Then they entered Moria. In the darkness all the nightmares he had ever dreamed seemed to jump out at him, then shrink back whenever anyone else asked him what the matter was. All of them were on edge; even the elf, who was never bothered by anything. Still they told him that he was being irrational, that there was nothing in dark even though he heard them talk among themselves about the goblins and the Gollum.

One afternoon (at least it was when they were having lunch, none of them could actually say what time it was) Boromir sat by Pippin, put a hand on his shoulder, and pointed into the blackness. "Tell me what you see. Your sight is better than mine, but my eyes are better trained. Together we can pierce this void just as well as any elf – better, even, since elves are afraid of the dark." Pippin looked over his shoulder to see if Legolas had heard. If he had the elf was not offended. After all, Boromir did not mean to insult their friend. He said it because it was true.

"Very well," said Pippin. He squinted and strained his eyes until they hurt. Still he only saw shadows, but he pointed out every demon he could find to Boromir.

When he finished Boromir nodded. "Let us consider the parts of each monster separately," said the man. He contemplated Pippin's demons for a moment, and then pointed to one. It was a fearsome thing in Pippin's mind, all claws and teeth. "That one, for instance, you say is a beast. I say it is stone. Look how his upper jaw and lower do not match, and if you move just a little, those eyes become skewed. It is stalactites and stalagmites; you may ask Gimli which is which."

Pippin smiled, and most of his companions would have stopped there, having successfully coaxed the youngest hobbit into believing his monsters were not real. Boromir, however, pointed to another creature. It was smaller, but it seemed hairy and it had a sword. "That is a dead goblin. If we separate the parts, we still see an arm, legs, and everything else. Also, you can smell it from here." He ruffled Pippin's hair in a manner that was too rough, but somehow comforting. "You are not imagining everything, little one, and you are right to be afraid. Trust that fear as a guide, but do not let it push you into the wrong conclusions." So Pippin survived when goblin scouts came out of the dark corners, and Legolas or Strider did not always shoot them.

No one dared to tell him everything would be alright when the Balrog came. Perhaps they would have tried if they had not been busy running, but the fear was written on their faces, too strong to be denied. Pippin was fairly certain that there wasn't a dry pair of breeches among the nine of them. While that might have been funny not so long ago when the air was clear and the grass of the Shire was beneath his feet, it was not at all funny when he was so scared that his entire body wrenched free of his control and did things he was not proud of. His bladder was a minor detail, compared to the way he ran, simply _ran _when it all began to come crashing down around them. The desire to get away from the hell-spawned creature was so great, he did not look back, did not care what was happening to his friends.

Then his body froze, and he watched Gandalf face the Balrog alone. He thought he heard Sam whisper that they were saved, that _of course _Gandalf could do anything. He would have agreed if his voice had been working. Then the wizard fell, and Pippin was still frozen while Frodo was screaming, screaming. His legs wouldn't work until Gimli pushed him, forced his body to start running again. But they would not hold him for long; Pippin collapsed feet from the gate, and Merry with him. Then the tears came rolling down his face. He barely felt Merry rubbing his arm while he, too, sobbed. They had never seen anyone die before. Not really; orcs never seemed to count. But Gandalf…Gandalf was their friend.

It was _not _alright. No matter how many times they told him, it was not. Only Boromir said nothing at all. He squeezed Pippin's shoulder, then Merry's, and left them to grieve safely within the borders of the forest.

And Lothlorien was beautiful, wasn't it? The Lady smiled at him, and his spirit lifted. He believed her when she said they would be safe, he believed that they could indeed go on. He did not see much of Boromir – nor most of the other members of the Fellowship, save the hobbits, for that matter. It felt a bit like the Shire again. He laughed with Merry and they tried to lift Frodo's heart. They were with the elves again. Perhaps it was their incredible age that brought Pippin back to his childhood, where all the world was good and nothing could hurt him. There was no pain for him here, and there never would be again.

No; that was not true. He could have turned back then, he knew. If he wanted the world could go on being splendid. But Pippin thought of Gandalf's sacrifice, and of poor Frodo, and that perhaps if the quest went wrong things in the Shire would not be wonderful, either. There were monsters out there, horrible things (Pippin would not think of the Balrog, he could not) that were not shadows, not just his imagination.

He shared a boat on the great big river with Merry and Boromir, and almost enjoyed it. Monsters could not reach them while they were floating so swiftly downstream! _Do not be so certain_, said a voice in the back of his head, one which sounded suspiciously like Boromir. It struck him as odd that his internal voice, his conscience, so to speak, had taken on the persona of the Gondorian.

Then the Nazgul cried out above them, and the memories of any other sound were erased. The river was not safe, it was utterly vulnerable! Still, they were rescued. How could anything go wrong when they had an elf who could shoot down a Nazgul in the middle of the night? _Gandalf is dead, and he was a wizard_, said the voice. _Elves can die, and so can hobbits. _

It was a strange moment to consider dying. After everything they had already been through, even when they were facing down the – _no, he would not think of it _ – he had not considered his own demise. But it was a distinct possibility, truly. He was not skilled or brave, and if wizards and elves could die, why not a hobbit?

"Merry," he whispered when they were back in the boat, "are we going to die?"

"What a question!" Merry exclaimed. "No, Pip, of course we aren't going to die. Everything will be fine, and before you know it we'll be back in the Shire having a half-pint while Sam moons over Rosie. You'll see, Pip. We'll be alright."

Pippin bit his bottom lip. He turned carefully, so that he could face Boromir without tipping the boat. "Boromir?"

The man shook himself out of some deep thought. By the look on his face, it had not been a pleasant one. "Yes?"

"Are we going to die?"

Boromir was silent for a moment. He considered most of Pippin's questions very seriously, even when they were very foolish. "Everyone dies," he said at last, "even elves, sometimes. We mortals can be sure that eventually our days will come to an end; that is encouraging for some, disheartening for others. But it will happen to us all."

It was not exactly the answer Pippin wanted, but it was an honest one. "Thank you," Pippin found himself saying. And he meant it, because Pippin found that it was not so scary to face the things that could kill him when he knew that eventually he _would _die, whether he faced them or not. He knew it wouldn't make much sense if he tried to explain it to anyone else, but he liked to believe that Boromir felt the same.

Pippin was an innocent child. Almost everyone loved him, and almost everyone wanted to protect him. His world was coated over with sugar, and every hard edge was wrapped in foam just for him, so that he would never, ever get hurt. But when Pippin sought adventure outside the womb of the Shire, he surely would have cracked his head if Boromir had not told him about the edges, and all the other bad things that did exist. The real world was not sweet, the real world hurt, and all of that was so much easier to face simply knowing that pain was as inevitable as joy.

So when he was jostled about on the back of an orc and Merry was telling him, "Don't worry, it will be alright," Pippin looked back where they had come from. He could still see Boromir dying, even though they were miles and miles away from the place now. Boromir (his hero, if only because the Gondorian was the only person who had never once lied to Pippin) was dead, and they were captured, and Frodo was running away to his doom, and Pippin had no idea what had happened to the others. "No," he said. "It won't be."


	8. Arwen's Lament

Disclaimer: Don't own LoTR.

It's been three years since I posted anything. Goheno nin, especially to those who wrote reviews that I never got back to. Thank you for leaving them! I've missed this fandom. So, here is a short piece I have had for a while, recently polished off and edited. Enjoy!

Arwen's Lament - As she lingers in Lothlorien after the death of Aragorn, Arwen regrets her Choice.

Rating: K+

Characters: Arwen

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><p>I am utterly alone. The woods no longer speak, the birds and beasts do not linger, and there is not a living soul to give me comfort. I came here to be closer to my memories, in the hopes that when I dreamt my life would come back to me. This has not been so; when I dream I see my family far away on a foreign shore, and no matter how I shout they cannot hear me. If I turn back I find Aragorn, but that happy reunion only makes the parting more painful, more bitter when I wake.<p>

Ada once told me he saw only death in my future. He was right. Ah, Valar!, he was right. There is no way to ease this pain. My children are grown, my children are _old_, my husband is dead. The world of men forgets me, and all that I was is gone.

Beyond the sea I might have found light and hope, happiness. How could I have given up all of this for one man? What a fool I am. Love does not die, though lovers do. I could have loved him still in Valinor, and never known this permanent parting. I could have remembered him forever as the young and lively ranger, and never the old man who could not warm my bed – nor even get into it without my aid.

Aragorn was a king to the end, unblemished in the eyes of his people and all that he was foretold to be. Only I and his nurses saw the truth. He was a man, just like any other. When age caught him at last, his body failed him. He soiled his robes, drooled around his porridge, and from time to time he called me _mother_. His people never knew, could _not _know he was anything less than Elessar. He could not bear to have even our own children to see him fail, so it was I who bathed him, who fed him, who saw to the daily functions of his body. Even then I loved him, as much as I had the day I forsook my immortality. I love him still, beyond his death.

But Valar, this emptiness will destroy me! When I think of him it hurts, and all I can recall is the last breath he took, the way his face went slack and the life fled. I clung to him, I cried, and even the presence of my son did not cheer me. I want my husband back, and if I cannot have him then I wish I had no heart with which to love! This pain is beyond bearing, and I…

I would take it back, if I could. Were I given the chance again, I would take the ships to Valinor. Elves were not made to handle grief. Now I understand how some may die of it. The elves feel empathy for all things, and so when their own hearts are rent they feel the pain a thousand times reflected. There is no greater torture than loss; I feel as though there is a dagger in my heart, sinking deeper every moment and sucking the very essence of my spirit.

Yet it seems I have grown too mortal, for I cannot will my spirit to flee this world. My elven blood keeps me from starvation, sickness, and the slow decay of age, so I am forced to linger. How strange a thought: too elven to die, too mortal to perish. Does this mean I must wander these woods for all time? The thought freezes my blood. I will go mad!

Valar, if any of you listen, hear my prayer: I have sold my immortality for my love, and this is the price. I have paid my debt, now have mercy! Let death find me swiftly to end this torment. Bring me to Aragorn, or bring me _home_!


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